He wil not rob me of my destiny.
He wil not steal my last chance to make things right with the universe.
I wil not wait for a thousand more years.
His eyes light upon me. Seemingly amused by my struggle. Lifting the fruit high into the air, high enough for us al to see, he pauses, savoring the moment of victory.
His smile wide, his eyes never once straying from mine as he inserts the fruit between his front teeth, and bites down.
thirty-three
I cling to my branch, not wanting to watch, yet unable to tear my gaze away. Overcome by the shame and humiliation of having been beaten. Knocked sideways by the horrible realization that I’ve failed at the one and only thing I was born to do.
My body reduced to a throbbing, bleeding pulp of a mess—my soul mate convinced I’ve abandoned him—as Rafe makes a show of enjoying the fruit.
And for what?
What was the point of it al ?
Why fight so hard? Why succeed at each and every step, only to fail at the one thing that counts more than anything else?
This bitter taste of defeat reminding me of what I once said to Damen after I’d confessed the whole horrible story behind my thwarted bout of time travel:
Sometimes destiny lies just outside of our reach.
And surprised to find that no longer rings true.
My destiny is stil very much attainable.
There’s no way it ends here.
I leap.
Working past the screaming pain in my body—working past my protesting muscles, my raw and bloody palms. I leap as high as I can, grab hold of the branch just above me, and then the one above that. Swinging like an agile monkey, until I’m just one branch below Misa and Marco, who are now only one branch below Rafe.
And when Rafe surprises us al by leaping from his branch to theirs, I see his face is stil aged, stil marked by time, and yet there’s no denying his glow—he’s positively radiant—he has an aura that’s beaming—al the proof that I need to know that it worked, his immortality has been reversed. He drops what little remains of the fruit onto Misa’s outstretched palms, then scrambles to the ground, as I swing myself up to where they now stand.
I veer toward them. Cringing at the sound of the branch creaking ominously from the stress of our combined weight, though they don’t seem to notice, don’t seem to care. They’re too distracted by the sight of the fruit, and the distant cry of a whooping and hol ering Rafe as he makes his way down the roots.
“Don’t come any closer,” Marco says, taking notice of me.
I freeze. Not because he told me to, but because my eye just caught sight of something unusual, something I never expected to see.
“Stay right where you are.” He glances at Misa, gestures for her to proceed and I watch as she shoves the fruit between her lips, her shiny white teeth tearing into the hard, velvety flesh as she closes her eyes, takes a moment to savor the taste before she hands it to Marco, who looks at me and says, “If I was feeling generous, if I had the slightest bit of concern for you, I’d share this last bite. After al , it appears there’s enough for both of us, wouldn’t you agree?”
I sink my teeth into my lip, hoping he’s too involved in taunting me to pay any notice to the miracle that is occurring just a handful of branches away.
Is it?
Could it actually be?
Should I trust in what my gut is telling me?
Should I trust in something that goes against every myth, every bit of wisdom I’ve ever learned about this tree?
Or shall I tackle Marco right here, right now? Get at that last bit of fruit while I can, knowing they’re as bloodied, broken, and weakened as I am?
He holds it before him, teasing, mocking, parting his lips in an exaggerated way. And I know it’s time to choose, time to decide between what I’ve been told and what I see happening before me, when he says, “But, as it turns out, I’m not feeling the least bit generous toward you, so I think I’l just take the opportunity to finish this very last bit.”
One step forward, as he shoves the fruit into his mouth.
Another step, closing the gap between us, as he closes his eyes and bites down.
The sight of it blurred by the song of Lotus’s voice in my head when she said:
The tree is evergiving.
I stop. Lose my footing. Find myself spiraling backward, back toward the ground. My fal stopped by a tangle of leaves just a few branches down, as Marco towers above me, makes a show of swal owing, wiping the juice from his chin with his sleeve.
I watch, noting how they’ve transformed much like Rafe did. Though stil aged, their auras glow vibrantly, vividly, making them appear positively luminous as they join hands, and make their way down the tree. Paying me no notice as they pass me along the way, but I no longer care. My attention is claimed by something they’re too shortsighted to see—something that changes everything.
It’s the fruit.
The sheer abundance of fruit.
Turns out the Tree of Life isn’t limited to just one single piece per thousand years as the legend claimed; for every piece that’s plucked, a new one appears in its place.
And suddenly I understand what my instinct was tel ing me—suddenly I know what Lotus meant when she said the tree was evergiving.
Suddenly I know what it means when they say the universe is abundant—that it offers us al that we need—that the only shortages that exist are the ones we create in our minds.
I work my way up, finding my way to the place where the fruit hangs ripe and ful . Then I yank off my bloodied, tattered T-shirt, exposing the equal y bloodied and tattered white cotton tank top beneath, smooth the fabric flat against my lap, and pluck that one lone piece of fruit, place it onto the center, then wait. Hoping I’m not wrong, hoping it real y is what I think, and grinning like crazy when a few minutes later another piece of fruit pops right into its place, and I pluck that one too. Repeating the task over and over until my T-shirt is so ful it can’t hold any more, and I fold the corners, tie ’em al together, and swing it over my shoulder in a makeshift knapsack.
Just about to make my way down when I gaze into the distance and witness the most amazing display of light that breaks through the fog in such a startling, bril iant, colorful way, it’s impossible to identify.
“What is that?” I whisper, gaping at the spectacle before me, figuring I’m so high up I must be witnessing some kind of celestial light show or something.
But it’s not long before I hear the faint trace of whoops and hol ers carried by the wind, a sound that tel s me it’s either Misa, Marco, or Rafe, or maybe even al three. And suddenly I understand why Lotus sent them after me.
She knew about the tree. Knew that it was evergiving. Knew that no matter what, no mater how hard they’d try to stop me, in the end, I’d succeed.
She may not have been al that forthcoming about the sort of immortality the fruit actual y offers, but then, they only told her they were looking for the elixir of life, and so she had every right to send them forward.
And while they may not have realized what they were getting into, from the sound of their excited shouts and yelps, from the way their glow lights up the sky, what they found is even better than what they first sought.
They found enlightenment— true immortality.
The kind I now hold in my hands.
And eager for my turn, I make my way down, beginning my own journey back.
thirty-four
The first thing I notice when I find myself back in Laguna Beach is that I’m healed.
In al of my excitement, I guess I made my way down the trail and manifested the veil so quickly I didn’t even notice my body is no longer battered and bloody, and my clothes are no longer ripped to shreds (though they are pretty filthy).
The second thing I notice is the weather.
It’s hot.
Like real y, real y hot.
Like way too hot for the thick socks and hiking b
oots I stil wear.
I gaze around the crowded narrow streets of downtown, the sun reflecting off the store windows in a way that forces me to shield my eyes until I can manifest a new pair of sunglasses. Part of me hoping that the fact that Summerland temperatures don’t real y fluctuate, always veering toward cool, is what throws me off now—while the other part fears this isn’t just unseasonably warm weather I’m experiencing, but that it is, in fact, al too seasonal.
I’ve got this horrible, sinking feeling that I’ve been gone far, far longer than planned.
While there may be no time in Summerland, that certainly doesn’t stop it from marching along here, and if the weather is any indication, my winter break has gone way beyond the two-week vacation I was granted from school. In fact, it may have even gone beyond my one-week spring break as wel , neither of which can result in anything good.
But even more bizarre than the weather, wel , almost more bizarre anyway, is the fact that I can actual y feel the gravity of the earth plane. I feel heavier, slower, which is just so weird. As many trips as I’ve made back and forth between Summerland and here, I’ve never real y noticed the difference. Or at least not like this. Not in such a profound and obvious way. But then, I’ve also never spent that much time in Summerland in one continuous stay, so that probably has something to do with it.
Thinking of long continuous stays, I reach for my cel phone, eager to get a peek at the date. Only to remember too late that I didn’t bring it, which makes sense since it’s not like I can get a signal in a mystical dimension anyway. So then I peer into the nearest store window, looking for some sort of clue as to the day, the time, even the month wil suffice. But al I can see is a bunch of high-priced, season-neutral offerings for the home, including a fake-fur cat bed in the shape of a crown, which doesn’t tel me much of anything.
I heave my T-shirt knapsack over my shoulder, reassured by its heft that the fruit survived the trip home, knowing how the things that are manifested in Summerland never survive the trip to the earth plane. But then, it’s not like I manifested the fruit. The tree is responsible for that, which is probably the only reason it’s with me.
I head for Jude’s store, figuring I can drop in, make sure he’s okay, and find a subtle way to inquire about the date. But instead of finding Jude, I end up finding pretty much the last person I ever would’ve expected.
Okay, maybe not the last person, because that would actual y be Sabine. Stil , I’m not gonna lie, the second I see Honor working behind the counter of Mystics and Moonbeams, chatting with a customer as she rings up what looks to be a pretty sizable sale, wel , I just stop right then and there, my body stal ed in an eye-bugging, jaw-dropping stare.
I was expecting to see Jude, or maybe Ava, or possibly even someone else altogether. But I never expected to see Honor. In fact, she didn’t even make the long list of suspects.
She glances up from the register, shoots me a hurried look, then gets right back to number punching, card sliding, and packaging.
Her face bearing no sign of how she might feel about seeing me standing before her, which, I gotta say is far more than I can say for my own gaping reaction to her.
The last I’d heard Jude had phased out of teaching the psychic development level one (with a smal emphasis on self-empowerment and magick) classes when Honor ended up being his only student. And after a few one-on-one, private tutorials, he’d determined it was best to stop altogether. Which, I have to admit, I was relieved to hear since Honor wasn’t exactly using her newfound skil s with the best of intentions, or for the best reasons.
I mean, no matter how awful Stacia may be (and believe me, she is real y and truly awful), I just couldn’t al ow Haven and Honor’s coup against her to continue. It just wasn’t right—too many people were getting hurt in the fal out. And it’s not like the two of them were doing any better once they’d taken Stacia’s place. If anything, they were pretty much mimicking her very worst behavior.
Last I saw, Honor and Stacia had kissed and made up, so to speak, but only because I’d pretty much forced them to do it. And now, after having been gone for who knows how long, I have no idea what’s transpired from there. For al I know, they’re both right back to being their awful old selves, indulging in their awful old ways. Stil , I hope that I’m wrong. I hope they’ve at least tried to move on to doing something a little more productive with their lives.
The customer grabs her bag and breezes right past me on her way out the door, as Honor takes a moment to handle the receipt.
Careful y placing it into the little purple box where Jude keeps them, before settling onto the stool and addressing me.
“Wel , wel .” She shakes her head as her eyes travel the length of me, giving me a very thorough once-over, careful to hide any hints of just how she might feel about my showing up here. “You were pretty much the last person I expected to see.”
“Jude around?” I ask, unwil ing to play her game, if that’s what it is. It’s kind of hard to tel just what she’s up to, or what her motive might be. “Or even Ava?” I add, making it clear I’m wil ing to speak to just about anyone but her.
“Ava wil be in soon,” she says, stil peering at me. “Same for Jude.” She smiles, an involuntary curving of lips that disappears just as quickly.
I approach the counter, meeting her stare with one of my own. Watching as she lifts her shoulders, leans back against the wal , and continues to study me.
“How long have you been working here?” I ask, as opposed to my real question: What day, time, and/or month is it? Knowing they must’ve hired her to fil in for me, and figuring her answer wil give me an indication of just how long I’ve been gone.
“’Bout six months. Give or take.” She shrugs, pushes a chunk of copper-streaked hair back behind her ear, then focuses on the state of her cuticles, while my mind reels with her answer.
Six months.
Six months?
Six months!
The room swimming before me, forcing me to grab hold of the counter in an effort to steady myself.
Six months puts me wel into May.
Puts me at the tail end of the second semester of my senior year.
Puts me at great risk of flunking out entirely unless I work some serious manifesting magick back in the school administrator’s office!
And I can’t help but wonder if it’s the same for Damen—if he’s in danger of flunking out too. Or if he managed to get back here with plenty of time to spare, while the journey to the Tree of Life put me over the edge, al of those seasons I was forced to find my way through.
But then, Damen’s never cared much about school. The only reason he enrol ed is the same reason he stayed—because of me. After six centuries of living, he hardly sees the point. And though I’ve recently taken a similar stance (as evidenced by my poor attendance even before I left on my journey), it’s not like I ever intended to flunk out.
It’s not like I ever dreamed of being a dropout.
I mean, even if I once believed I had no need for SATs, grade point averages, or col ege applications, even if I assumed that my being immortal precluded me from having any use for that type of thing, I stil never imagined not finishing high school.
Tossing my cap into the air at graduation is pretty much the one normal thing I assumed that I’d do.
And now, apparently I’ve let that slide by the wayside too.
I sigh and shake my head, try to focus my attention back on the present, to where I now stand, saying, “Wow, that’s … that’s quite a while…” Not real y knowing what else to say.
“You’ve been gone a long time.” She lifts her shoulders along with her brow. “So, how was it? How is Summerland these days?” She poses the question so casual y you’d think we always talked about such things. Barely venturing a glance toward me before she returns to inspecting her cuticles, picking at a hangnail at the edge of her thumb, as I search for a way to reply, but no words wil come. “I know about Summerland.” She shoves
her thumb in her mouth, finishing the job with her teeth before settling her hands on her lap as her gaze lights upon me. “Of course I’ve never been, though not for lack of trying.” She makes a glum face. “But it’s tough for a beginner like me.
Jude said you’re the one who first got him there, and now he’s trying to do the same thing for me. Haven’t had much luck so far, but I’m not giving up. I’ve been studying pretty hard, and I’ve read just about everything I can on the subject. Is it real y as magical as Jude says?” She slews her eyes over me, taking a tour of my filthy clothes, but to her credit (and my surprise), she shows no sign of the usual snide judgment I’ve come to expect from her. “Don’t look so shocked. It’s not like it’s some big juicy secret.” She arches her brow high and quirks her mouth to the side. “Wel , I guess the fact that you go there al the time is kind of like a big juicy secret, but stil , it’s not like the place is a secret. Also, it’s not like I’ve told anyone about it, or even about you. Believe me, Jude’s already warned me. Fel just shy of threatening me if I so much as breathe a word about you or what you can do. So feel free to take a deep breath and relax now, k?”
But even though she assures me that it’s okay to relax, I can’t. Any relaxing thoughts I might have, have been taken over by the way she said “Jude.”
Jude said you’re the one who first got him there.
Jude says it’s magical.
Jude warned me not to tell.
The word appearing harmless and casual on the surface, unless you heard the way it was spoken: warmly, intimately, bearing a familiarity that goes way beyond a student/teacher/employee/boss relationship.
Not to mention how often it was spoken, like a girl with the mad-hots who finds any excuse to insert her crush’s name into a sentence.
“So, you and Jude, huh?” My gaze meets hers as I try to determine how I feel about that. Searching for signs of jealousy, and relieved when I realize that’s not what’s niggling me.